


No, You're Spartacus

by Vermin_Disciple



Series: Where No Occult (Or Ethereal) Being Has Gone Before [4]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Ancient Rome, Crack, Crack Crossover, Gen, Historical References, Humor, Non-sexual kinkshaming, References to violence but no actual violence onscreen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 23:12:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8032732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermin_Disciple/pseuds/Vermin_Disciple
Summary: In which Bashir and O'Brien find a pair of uninvited guests in their newest holosuite program.





	No, You're Spartacus

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am putting that Classics degree to good use again.

“I,” announced Julian Bashir as he strolled into Quark’s and up to Chief O’Brien’s seat, “have a new holosuite program.”

Julian’s broad smile was somewhere between overly enthusiastic and a little smug, and would undoubtedly have set Miles’ teeth on edge a few years ago. Now, he found himself grinning right back. A new holosuite program was welcome news; he’d been getting a bit bored with the Battle of Britain.

“Well, what is it?” he asked.

“The last stand of Spartacus against the Roman general Marcus Licinius Crasus.” 

“Didn’t that end with everyone getting crucified?” 

“The program ends before that part. It’s a noble and heroic fight for freedom.” 

“Do you have the specs for the costumes?” 

“Right here,” said Julian, holding up a data crystal. “And I’ve already made us a reservation. Just be careful with the sword, alright? I don’t want you dislocating that shoulder again.” 

***

When they arrived, dressed in an impressive array of gladiatorial armor and weaponry, they found the program already running. The rolling green hills of southern Italy spread out before them, and though the scene appeared tranquil, Miles could hear the unmistakable cacophony of a battle raging nearby.

“Odd,” said Julian. “I didn’t turn it on.” 

“Look up there,” said Miles, pointing up at two figures seated at the top of the hill. Miles and Julian shared a look, and then began climbing towards them. As they drew closer, Miles noticed that the two men appeared to be sharing a bottle of wine and watching the carnage in the valley below. 

“Isn’t that Ensign Crowley from Stellar Cartography?” asked Miles. 

“I thought he was in Communications?” whispered Julian. “The one he’s talking to is Mr. Aziraphale, the rare book dealer whose shop is across from Garak’s. Garak,” he added conspiratorially, “thinks he’s up to something.” 

“Oh, Mr. Garak thinks so, does he?” said Miles, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 

Crowley and Aziraphale hadn’t noticed them yet, but as they approached, Miles could hear their conversation more clearly. 

“Why would anyone want to relive this?” said Crowley. “It was bloody awful.” 

“Emphasis on the bloody,” said Aziraphale. “But they’re not _reliving_ it, my dear. They never lived through it in the first place.” 

“Still,” said Crowley. “Not exactly one of humanity’s finest hours.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Aziraphale, meditatively. “Taking a brave stand against slavery, an institution of great evil—“

“He didn’t give a toss about slavery in _general_ , just slavery as it pertained to him and his mates. All he was trying to do was plunder Italy and then scarper off to Gaul.” 

“Well, when you put it like that—“

“I’d expect these shiny-eyed Starfleet types to see it that way, but you ought to know better.” 

(Julian looked a little offended at that.)

“Say, you didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?” continued Crowley. “A little Divine inspiration gone awry?” 

“No! Did _you_? I would think that crushing slave rebellions is something your people would encourage.” 

“As if I would hang around with _Crassus_ ,” said Crowley disdainfully. “What a piece of work he was.”

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale. 

Julian cleared his throat. Both of the interlopers turned their heads. “Excuse me,” he said, “but this holosuite is reserved.”

“Oh, is it?” said Aziraphale. “Dreadfully sorry, my dear boy.” He stood and brushed imaginary dirt from his cardigan. 

Miles wasn’t sure what to make of Mr. Aziraphale, who had a plummy English accent and was wearing an outfit that even his old Nan would’ve found out of date. At least he looked apologetic, though, in contrast to Mr. Crowley, who looked like he had never apologized for anything in his life. He was wearing sunglasses, and an expression that Miles found viscerally, instinctively irritating. Miles also had the distinct impression that there was more than a touch of mockery in that quirk of an eyebrow, and that he and his gladiatorial garb were the subject. 

“Sorry to interrupt the weekly bromance date-night, gentlemen,” said Crowley. He continued to sip his wine, and showed no sign of moving. “Interesting little program you’ve got here.” 

“ _Bromance_ ,” repeated Aziraphale, contemplatively. “Oh, I know that one! Early 21st century Anglophone colloquialism, wasn’t it? Portmanteaus were inexplicably popular in that period.” 

“Why is your grasp of slang always at least a century out of date?”

Aziraphale ignored this retort, and offered a hand. “Come along, my dear. We don’t want to intrude on Dr. Bashir’s and Mr. O’Brien’s – er, battle.” 

Crowley took the proffered hand, stood, and drained the last of his wine. He put the glass down—no, the glass was simply gone. Miles frowned. He was certain there had been a wine glass a moment ago. Come to think of it, there had been a tartan blanket spread out on the grass, and a picnic basket, hadn’t there? 

They summoned the arch. But before stepping through it, Crowley looked at both of them over the top of his sunglasses, revealing a pair of yellow eyes with slits for pupils. 

“Why do you two want to play at hacking people to death with swords, anyway?” he said. “It’s not a very enlightened form of entertainment, watching some poor sod tripping over his own intestines. And the less said about life in an ancient army camp, the better.” 

“All that dysentery,” put in Aziraphale. 

“None of it’s _real_ ,” said Julian, but he looked embarrassed. 

“Of course not,” said Aziraphale, patting the doctor’s arm sympathetically. “Still, there are much nicer places to visit in classical antiquity.” 

“C’mon, angel,” said Crowley, from the other side of the exit.

Aziraphale followed, but paused right at the exit. He took in the scene with a slight frown, and murmured something under his breath that sounded like, “Much nicer,” before following his friend out of the holosuite. 

“Well,” said Julian. “That was—“

“Yeah,” agreed Miles. “Why don’t we—er—“ 

That was when they both noticed that they were no longer standing in an approximation of the Italian countryside. Instead, they were in an enormous hall with marble floors and columns, and row upon row of shelves containing thousands of cylindrical containers. 

“Julian, tell me this is part of the program.” 

“Sorry,” said Julian. “I have no idea where any of this came from.” He picked up one of the cylinders and inspected it. It contained a scroll of paper, tightly rolled. 

“What does it say?” 

“I don’t know. It’s all in Greek.” 

“Computer,” said Miles, “where are we?” 

To his relief, the computer did respond, albeit unhelpfully. “You are in Holosuite 5.” 

“What program is currently playing?” 

“Unknown.” 

“Computer,” tried Julian, “analyze the contents of the program and tell us what location in Earth history it most likely represents.” 

“It is a recreation of the Royal Library of Alexandria,” said the computer. 

“And you say Mr. Aziraphale’s a rare book dealer?” 

They looked at each other. Julian started to say something, and then stopped and cleared his throat. 

“You said something the other day about a holosuite program you were working on – the Battle of the Alamo, wasn’t it?

Miles managed a half-smile that was only slightly strained. 

“I’ll replicate you a coonskin cap.”


End file.
